


Be The Puck

by ipreferaviators



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Character Study, Crack, Gen, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ipreferaviators/pseuds/ipreferaviators
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So the thing is, sometimes Andrew is a puck.</p>
<p>No, really. A puck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be The Puck

**Author's Note:**

> Because my twitter feed is full of awful enablers, and because Shawzy can't seem to remember that he isn't actually a puck.
> 
> Thanks to [sly_fck](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sly_fck/pseuds/sly_fck) for the beta, and to the @hockey_gfs for telling me that writing puck!shapeshifter!Shawzy as my first hockey fic doesn't make me a horrible person.

So the thing is, sometimes Andrew is a puck.

No, really. A puck.

It's not what he'd call a regular occurrence, and for the most part it doesn't really impact his life. He spends most of his time on the ice anyway, playing and running drills and just loving the feel of the ice under his skates. So on the rare occasions that his ~condition~ pops up, it's really not a big deal.

The first time it happens is when he's 12 years old. He just finished playing a game and is changing out of his clothes, lagging behind the other kids because he isn't quite ready to _leave_ yet. He's always felt better when he's part of something, a team or a game of shinny or even just a gathering of dudes on the ice with sticks. It settles him, in a way. He's feeling particularly settled (for a twelve-year-old guy, at least), and then suddenly he's feeling _really_ settled, as in lying flat on the ground, several feet shorter than he usually is.

It's not too bad, even if it is kind of scary at first. He turns back after about an hour or so of just sitting there, staring at the ceiling. And it's a little bit awesome to see the world from a totally different perspective.

It continues to happen a few times a year, as he works his way up and puts in his time to make it to the NHL. It doesn't happen around games anymore--he's learned that the trigger is some combination of contentment, comfort, and that same settled feeling, and honestly that just doesn't come up a lot for a hockey player. There's too much energy and excitement surrounding games: elation if they play well, anxiety if they're playing poorly, frustration if they lose. Andrew loves his job, completely and totally, but it's not exactly the most relaxing occupation. But it's the only one he can see himself doing, and he doesn't miss the lack of boredom that seems to trigger transformations. Everything is great.

When the Blackhawks make it to the playoffs, though, shit gets a little weird.

Andrew is still caught up in the energy-terror-drive-anxiety of wanting to keep winning _so badly_ , just like everyone else. But something shifts, somewhere, and he starts to feel less like he's scared of losing and more like he's part of something, particularly something amazing. The team, the guys, the way they played the regular season: there's definitely no guarantee that the playoffs will be the same, but even if they're not, Andrew thinks he's kind of okay with that, just to have been a part of what they did after the lockout ended. It's almost terrifying, in its own way, this newfound calm he has about the playoffs. Sometimes it comes out on the ice, taking too many stupid penalties just because he's so psyched to be _out there_ , _doing shit_. And apparently, sometimes it comes out as Andrew turning back into a puck.

Well, fuck.

It happens before morning skate, when they're in the middle of the first series. One minute, he's walking toward the locker room, smiling to himself about one more day of doing what he loves, with the team he loves, and the next minute he's inches off the ground and completely still. And made of rubber.

As much as Andrew knows what causes the transformation, in a weird and abstract way, he has no idea how to make it stop. He's never needed to--normally, he just rides it out and enjoys being even more a part of hockey than he usually is, until he turns back. So he's sitting there on the floor, in the hallway of the United Center, wondering what the fuck he should do next, when Tazer walks by. He looks like a man on a mission (he usually is, Andrew knows), but when he sees Andrew on the floor (the puck that is Andrew, specifically), he stops, turns, and picks Andrew up.

"Huh," Tazer says.

_Shit_ , Andrew thinks.

Tazer takes him to the locker room and leaves him sitting on a shelf while the other guys get ready. Andrew can hear Saader asking whether anyone knows where he is, whether maybe he'd called out for a maintenance day or something and didn't tell Brandon. Andrew feels guilty, but it's not like he planned this. It just...happened.

When Tazer's got his skates on, he grabs Andrew from the shelf and starts heading toward the ice. Andrew doesn't have a stomach when he's a puck, but if he did, it would probably be churning. Andrew's never actually been on the ice as a puck. He's not sure if it's going to feel really fucking awesome, or just hurt a whole hell of a lot.

It's both, and it's the most incredible experience of Andrew's life.

Tazer drops him on the ice, which hurts, but in this weirdly disconnected way, like taking a hit against the boards from a guy smaller than you when you're wearing all your pads. Not enough to jar you, but enough to make you notice it. It should be disturbing, but it mostly just feels familiar. This is hockey. Andrew knows hockey.

The first time he gets shot at the net is a head rush (puck rush? He's not sure how the sayings go under these circumstances). The cold air whistles across his surface and it feels like he's being polished, like the ice itself is giving him a giant hug while they ride a roller coaster together. He hits the post (fucking _ow_ ) and bounces back down onto the ice, which is even better than the air, if that's even possible.

The guys go through some drills, and near the end, they line up for shootout practice. Several other pucks have been tossed around on the ice, but Andrew winds up in line for Kaner's shot. Andrew braces himself for the feeling of the wind, and then the pain of hitting a post or the back boards, but the hit never comes. Instead, he feels the net curl around him, the threads cupping and stroking his sides as he slams into the back corner. They stretch apart around him, slowing his movement and then cradling him back the other direction, soft touches guiding him in a way that would result in some awkward jersey-pulling if he was currently a person. But he's not, he's a puck, and it's the hottest, strangest, and most addictive thing he's ever felt.

He changes back about an hour after everyone else leaves, waking up in his street clothes on the ice and feeling like he's equal parts hung-over, well-fucked, and achingly sore. He sneaks out, barely making it home before jerking off to the memory of the net against his rubber. It's the weirdest thing he's ever done, but he doesn't even care anymore. That was _awesome_.

Of course, just because he'd be okay with turning into a puck more regularly now, that doesn't mean he gets to. He tries everything he can think of: meditation, his favorite music, hanging out with the guys. Nothing works, and Andrew is starting to think he's going to go nuts with not getting that feeling back. He starts to think maybe he _is_ nuts, maybe none of that was real, maybe he's been hallucinating this since he was twelve. Then he starts to wonder if maybe his entire _life_ is a hallucination, that he's not really playing hockey, he's hooked up to some lab table in an alien ship, being tested for his responses to various invasive probes. He winds up freaking himself out, and that combines with his frustration to land him in the penalty box a few too many times to play off as normal.

Handzus takes him aside to talk with him about the problem. Andrew blushes and apologizes and promises to be better, and he resolves to stop thinking about the probes. That way lies only madness.

The first time he goes into the net is actually an accident. He was going too fast to stop or get out the way, and he was trying not to hit Quick, so he winds up flying into the Kings' net at a pretty high speed. And it's not the same, not even close, but. But for that split second, Andrew can almost pretend it is.

He definitely doesn't mean to do it again. But they're struggling against the Kings, unable to find the rhythm of the past two games, and Andrew just hits the end of his rope. He's either going to take someone out, violently and with a lot of attached penalty minutes that they can't afford, or he's going to throw himself into the net.

He chooses the latter.

It doesn't help. And they still lose.

Once they're back at the hotel, Andrew changes into sweatpants and gets settled onto his bed with every intention of falling asleep to bad television. The knock on his door surprises him, and he almost doesn't answer it--he doesn't want another handholding session, or to stare down Tazer's disappointed face, or to try and figure out the best thing to say to a depressed (and sober) Kaner.

He hears another knock, though, so he finally answers it to find Crawford standing there in his own set of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He doesn't say anything, so neither does Andrew, but he lets Crawford come inside and close the door behind himself.

"You know, you don't really fit in the goal very well when you're human," Crawford finally says, and Andrew nearly chokes on the water he'd gotten from the bathroom, just to have something to do while Crawford stood there silent and awkward.

"What?" he finally manages to say.

"I'm just saying," Crawford says, sounding for all the world like they're discussing the weather in California or some shit. "Nets are for pucks. Not people."

Andrew continues to stare. Half of him is trying to figure out what Crawford is saying, and the other half is trying to figure out _how_ Crawford is saying what he's saying. He can't. No one. No one _knows_ about that, and Andrew has half-convinced himself he was imagining it all along.

Crawford just sighs at him, and sits down on the chair in the corner of the room.

"You know why I became a goalie, instead of forward or defense like all the other kids I knew?"

Andrew slowly shakes his head, because he wasn't aware there was some sort of _story_ about it. Goalies are crazy. When crazy guys want to play hockey, they become goalies. Simple.

"I was eight, and we were goofing around on my cousin's backyard rink. The other kids had gone inside to get food, but I stayed out, just skating around in circles and watching the tracks my skates made in the ice. Until suddenly, I wasn't skating anymore. I was just there, frozen, staring out across the ice towards the house. I couldn't move, couldn't turn, couldn't talk. I thought I was going to die. But then I looked around and realized I could fucking see _everything_ , clear as day. I could see every bird, every leaf; I swear I could even see the air. It was incredible. And right in the middle of that was the puck, sitting there in the middle of the pond. And I felt like no matter how fast it was going, or how far away it was, I'd be able to see every move it made."

"You," Andrew starts to say, but he can't figure out what comes after that.

"I've seen the way you look at the puck," Crawford says, with an easy smile. "Same way I look at the net."

Andrew stares for a few second more, but then he can't stop the grin from spreading across his face.

"Fucking _really_ , dude? I thought I was the only one. I thought I was crazy, or hallucinating, or part of some giant alien abduction experiment." By the end, he's almost yelling, but he doesn't care. Because he's not crazy, he's not delusional, and he's not. Fucking. Alone.

Crawford just grins at him, shit-eating and reassuring and happy.

"So can you stop getting all up in my metaphorical business when you're five feet tall?"

Andrew wants to punch his arm for the height dig, but he's too busy grinning back.

"I'll try," he says. And he means it.


End file.
